Fag
by I'm-not-here-HONEST
Summary: Dave Karofsky. The week he couldn't deal with. Set after he is outed at school.  Warnings: triggers for SH and attempted-suicide.


Fag. The word seemed to hunt him down. It never left him alone. At school it was sprayed on his locker, thrown in his face, whispered behind his back. It hurt like a slap in the face.

On the internet it was plastered over his identity and no matter how many times he tried to delete himself there, somehow it managed to cut through. It pervaded everything; e-mail, Facebook, Twitter and any other site was vandalised with vulgarities.

At home the word had seeped through the cracks. It had oozed its way into his last sanctuary, obliterating every last feeling of comfort. Every look was of distrust, every word was spoken with measured distaste and misunderstanding. They wouldn't touch him, could barely stand to be around him. The very people who had said they loved him days before had turned around and stabbed him in the chest.

Despair. Utter despair and loneliness. He was drowning in it, every single hope or dream decimated under his feet. His entire future burnt to ashes as he watched, helpless.

And at the back of his mind the blackness called. He deserved it. He deserved every second of the agony. It was all he could think. He had done this to people. He had hurt people like this. No one should hurt people like this, cause this much pain to someone else. He was disgusting.

So he kept going back to school. He kept walking when he was slammed into lockers, kept ignoring the anguish it caused him every time he heard that word, kept ignoring the terror of not knowing who might cause the wave of self-loathing to crash over and smother him next.

He had moments of weakness. He would sit, trembling on the floor of the toilets, eyes raw with tears, hugging his knees to his chest in a feeble attempt to dissipate the crushing agony. Sometimes he tried to call Kurt. Kurt never answered his calls

Kurt, who had managed to put up with this for weeks, months. Kurt, who had kept smiling, and dressing up nicely and fought back no matter what. Kurt, who was just so much better than him in every single way. He was useless and pathetic for not even being able to put up with it for a few days. He deserved the pain. He didn't deserve Kurt.

He wasn't good enough. He wasn't good enough for his friends. He wasn't good enough for his parents. He wasn't good enough for his life. Every breath he took, someone else couldn't. Every meal he ate, someone else wouldn't. Anyone else deserved it more than he did. He was a waste of life. He hated himself for wanting it, hated himself for being scared of the alternative.

Anger. The emotion flared uncontrollably. Locked in his room he took his hockey stick in his hand and slammed it into himself. A dull throb washed through his nerves. Again and again. It was different. It was something other than the ache in his chest. It was better. He deserved the pain.

In the morning every welt was visible. Black and purple bruises lining his legs and arms and body. Every movement spawned pain echoing through his flesh. No one noticed. Shoved into a locker he nearly laughed as fire spread through his side. What could they do that he hadn't already done himself?

Someone tripped him. Hands and knees cut open, mud and blood stained his clothes. His mind went to Kurt, perfect and always immaculate. He kept walking, breathing through the new, fresh, stinging pain. He felt alive. He felt angry. He felt useless.

Late at night, numb loss set in. He was so very, very alone. Overwhelmed and frightened, he sat awake in the dark. Pathetic, his mind screamed as the tears stung his eyes. Useless. He was useless. A flare of anger. He was useless. He cast around his room for something, anything sharp. A pocket knife glittered from the depths of the darkness.

His skin stung as the blade went into it. Tingling, he ran the edge back through the shallow cut. A drop of blood, red and dark, ran down his arm. He shut his eyes as the pain flooded his limbs. His wrist screamed as he ran the knife over it harder. The numb feeling receded. He felt weightless. He felt powerful. He deserved the pain. Catching the flow, stark and bright against perfect white tissue, he could feel as it cooled, wet and sticky. He watched as the trickle slowed, flexed his arm as the pain began to morph and throb, as the motion squeezed a few more drops from his abused tissue. That was enough. He finally succumbed to sleep.

The next morning brought fresh hell. Hatred unlike anything before lingered, leaving him sick to his stomach. He was a freak. He was worse than useless, beyond pathetic. More blood was spilt before breakfast. Looking in the mirror he took in the back bags, pale greyish skin, bloodshot eyes and the loathing seeping from every pore. He snarled. He hated himself.

Looking out of the window he glared at the drizzle, at the grey concrete metres below. He could almost feel the swoop in his stomach as he plummeted to Earth. He could almost hear the sickening crunch as his skull hit the ground amidst screams from passersby. He could almost taste the freedom.

He weighed a pencil sharpener in his hands, watching the glint of artificial light against cold steel. He could feel the sting of half-closed wounds on his wrist. He imagined the lightheaded fear as red oozed beyond the point of no return. He imagined the dizzying blackness as the void claimed him. He imagined not having to deal with anything anymore.

Tears flooded his eyes. Regret tugged at his chest. They wouldn't miss him. They would be better off without him. It was selfish if they expected him to deal with this for them. This was too much. He deserved to die.

He lay out his best suit. He needed to look perfect. It would only make everything harder if he couldn't even look okay. Besides, it would make it easier if they didn't need to redress him to put him in his coffin.

His hands shook as he pulled on his clothes. Anger surged. He was such a coward. Only a coward would be this scared. This was what he wanted. He wanted to escape. He needed a way out. A permanent way out.

Wiping at the tears he squared his shoulders. The belt seemed strong enough. The bare beam and the wooden chair mocked him with their solidarity. They weren't going to give up. He choked back a sob.

He walked into his closet. It was a sick joke that this was where it would happen, that despite everything, this was it.

Gravity seemed so much stronger than usual as he dragged the chair forward. He heaved himself up, wiping his eyes for the last time. The leather felt cool against his neck. He shut his eyes. His heart was hammering in his chest. He took one last deep breath, willing back the hysteria and the terror. This was it. This would fix everything. One step.

He plunged into the darkness.


End file.
